The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one (2 page)

1:3

Standing guard at the gate, the attendant shifted lazily from one foot to the other. The cathedral wouldn’t reopen until late afternoon, and his thoughts had already gravitated to the cold beer he’d get himself in a few minutes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a flash of movement in the shadows on the northern side of the transept. But he was in no hurry to investigate. Over the years he’d learned that the light flickering through the stained-glass windows played tricks with his weary eyes. And he was long since accustomed to the murmurs and groans that emanated from stone and wood, when the church was empty. His wife said it was the saints talking and that the house of God was never empty, but personally the attendant figured the sounds were merely those of an old edifice getting older.

Didn’t his own bones crack now and again?

Except that the noise he was now hearing was different. It was that of whispered words, the rush and tumble of supplication. Then he saw another flash of movement and moved away from the gate to get a better view. Indeed, a woman on her knees was praying in front of the Altar de la Inmaculada, one of the Baroque splendors of the cathedral that depicted a large-than-life Mary, surrounded by a golden sunburst that attested to her sanctity.

The woman’s eyes were locked on the delicately carved face, which gazed down with infinite understanding on the worshippers who sought her mercy. Enraptured, the woman was obviously oblivious to the fact that the cathedral had closed.

It was not the first time this had happened, thought the attendant, nor would it be the last. The cathedral’s multiple chapels made it easy to overlook some poor soul at closing time. He usually had to make the rounds twice, and would have done so today, had it not been his duty to accompany the priest to the Camara Santa.

He approached the woman slowly, not wanting to startle her and hoping the sound of his feet on the stones would get her attention. As he got closer, he realized that she wasn’t Spanish. The colorful straw bag at her side and her stylish leather jacket suggested she was a tourist, although tourists usually just took a few pictures and left. And this woman seemed to be praying with the intensity of some of the elderly peasant women in the parish.

“Señora,” he whispered.

The woman’s prayer gained in fervor. “…We are but your servants. Thy will shall be done…” The attendant recognized the language as English. He glanced back at the entrance of the Camara Santa. He didn’t want the old priest to come down the steps and find the gate unguarded, but the woman was going to have to be escorted out of the church.

He touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Señora, la catedral está cerrada.”

She turned and looked at him uncomprehendingly. He wasn’t even sure she saw him. The pupils of her eyes appeared dilated, as if she were in trance.

She shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry. What?”

“La catedral está…” He searched his mind for the right word. “Closed, señora. The church is closed.”

The woman’s face suddenly flushed crimson with embarrassment. “Closed? Oh, I didn’t realize. I must have…lost track of the time….Perdón….Perdón, por favor.”

The attendant helped her to her feet, gathered up her straw bag and escorted her to the cathedral entrance. As they walked down the nave, she kept turning back, as if to get another look at the virgin.

“This really is one of the holiest places on earth,” she said, while the attendant unlocked the door. Her eyes had regained their luster and he felt her grip tighten on his arm. “It’s what I’ve been feeling, so it must be true. I mean, they do say that this is holy ground, don’t they?”

Not knowing what she was saying, the attendant nodded vigorously in agreement, before locking the heavy door behind her.

He glanced at his pocket watch. Was it his imagination or was Don Miguel praying longer than usual? As quickly as possible, he made his way to the Camara Santa, ready to explain the distraction that had taken him away from his post. Before he was halfway there, he spotted the priest, lying on his back. His legs were twisted to the side and his hands resembled rope knots on the stone floor. He seemed to have fallen asleep in mid-prayer.

Panic seized the attendant.
The relic?
What had happened to the relic?

He let out a sigh of relief.

Nothing! There it lay on top of the silver chest, undisturbed. He picked it up carefully and locked it away in the cupboard at the back of the crypt. Only then, when he turned his attentions to Don Miguel, did he realize that the priest was dead.

The attendant made the sign of the cross over the body that age had so shrunken. If his heart had to give out, how fitting, he thought, that it should give out here. The old priest had deeply loved this place. His devotion had been without limits. And now he looked so peaceful.

Surely he had gone to his just reward in Heaven.

How fortunate he was!

1:4

“Well, you’ve certainly turned into an early bird,” Ruth Ritter muttered, as she shuffled into the kitchen. “This is the third morning this week you’ve been up before me. What’s come over you?”

Hannah looked up from the oil-cloth-covered table, where she was contemplating a soft-boiled egg on toast. “Nothing. I haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”

“Not sick, are you?”

Ruth threw her niece a side-long glance. She prided herself on her ability to read people. She may not have gone to college and there weren’t any fancy books in the house, but she liked to think she had more than her share of “smarts.” She noticed things and could smell a fib a mile away. “Because that’s the last thing we need around here - you coming down with something!” she said. “One sick person’s enough Your uncle’s ulcer is acting up again.”

Hannah’s mother used to say that when they were growing up, Ruth was the pretty Nadler sister, the vivacious one with all the boyfriends. It was hard to believe now. Hannah couldn’t picture her aunt as anything other than the stout, perpetually disgruntled housewife in a chenille robe, who right now was heading for the coffee maker and the jolt of caffeine that would get another disappointing day going.

“You made the coffee already?” Ruth asked, surprised.

“I was up.”

“You
sure
nothing’s wrong with you?”

Why was it always a crack like that, Hannah wondered. Never, “thank you,” or “what a nice thing to do.” In Ruth’s world, every deed came with an ulterior motive. People were either trying to get on her good side or they were trying to pull the wool over her eyes. Nobody just did things. They did things for a reason.

Ruth lifted the coffee cup to her lips and took a slurp. “What time did you get home from the diner last night?”

“Same as usual. About quarter past midnight.”

“And you’re up at the crack of dawn?” There was that sidelong look again. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing, Aunt Ruth! Honest!”

All she’d done was call Partners in Parenthood a week ago. The lady who’d answered the phone said she’d mail out some explanatory literature right away, and without thinking, Hannah had given the Ritters’ address. Later, she realized she should have had it sent to the diner, instead.

“As long as you live under our roof and enjoy our hospitality,” Ruth never failed to remind her, “There will be no secrets in this house.”

If the envelope from Partners in Parenthood had hearts and a baby on it, as the ad did, she’d have a lot of explaining to do. So every morning this week, Hannah had risen early to intercept the mail. So far, though, no letter.

Girls her age were supposed to think about boyfriends and getting married some day and starting families of their own. So why had the notion of carrying a baby for a childless couple appealed so much to her imagination? All Hannah could think was that her mother had something to do with it. Her mother had been a giver, who believed people had a duty to help others less fortunate. Whenever you got bogged down in your own problems, her mother had said, it meant it was time to think of somebody else. The lesson was engraved on Hannah’s memory, although, sadly, she heard the sound of her mother’s gentle voice less clearly than she used to.

Ruth slid a plate of hot cinnamon buns out of the oven and scrutinized them carefully before selecting the one that risked disappointing her least. “I thought you were supposed to be working the breakfast shift all this week,” she said.

“I was, but business has fallen way off. After the holidays, everyone’s staying home, I guess.”

“Don’t let that Teri screw you out of all the good shifts.”

Ruth washed down the bun with the last of her coffee, then reached into the refrigerator for a carton of eggs. “I hope that uncle of yours isn’t going to sleep all morning. Tell him breakfast is on the table.”

Grateful for the opportunity to escape from the kitchen, Hannah called up the stairs, “Uncle Herb? Aunt Ruth says breakfast’s ready.”

A grumble came back.

“He’s coming,” she said, relaying the message to her aunt, then glanced out the living room window. Just as she expected, the mailman was making his way down the street. Bracing herself against the cold, she slipped out the front door and headed him off at the foot of the walkway.

“Gonna save me a few steps, are you?” the mailman said cheerfully. He reached into his pouch and handed her a packet loosely bound with string.

A quick check told Hannah it was the predictable assortment of bills, magazines and junk mail. Just as she reached the front stoop, she saw the envelope with Partners in Parenthood printed on the upper-left hand corner. She was about to put it in her pocket, when an angry voice rang out.

“What are you doing now? Heating the whole neighborhood? Do you have any idea how much heating oil costs?” Herb Ritter, in his bathrobe and pajamas, stood in the open doorway, his thinning gray hair still sleep-tangled.

“I’m sorry. I only stepped outside for a second.”

“I’ll take that.” Herb whipped the packet out of Hannah’s hands and shuffled headed into kitchen, where he took his habitual place at the head of the breakfast table.

Hannah placed a coffee cup before him and waited, while he examined the mail, which was doing nothing to improve his spirits. Her letter was on the bottom. Enough of it stuck out so that she could read the word “Partners” in the return address. She reached over his shoulder and slid it from the pile.

“Hey, what are doing?”

“I believe that one’s for me. My name’s on it.”

“Who’s writing to you?” Ruth asked.

“Nobody.”

“The letter wrote itself?”

“It’s private, Aunt Ruth. Do you mind?”

Ruth’s indignant words echoed up the stairwell. “How many times do I have to tell you, young lady? There will be
no secrets
in this house.”

Hannah closed the door to her bedroom, waited until she had caught her breath, then carefully sliced open the envelope with her finger.

1:5

The priest had been dead for two days, when the attendant received orders from the archbishop’s office.

His Eminence and “several guests” intended to visit the Camera Santa that evening. Once the church was closed, he was instructed to station himself at the entrance to the shrine, unlock the gates at the appropriate moment and stand guard for the duration of their stay.

All the attendant could think was that it had something to do with the old priest’s demise, except that the Oviedo police had already inspected the premises and found nothing amiss. Photographs had been taken of the priest’s body, before it had been removed. All the relics in the Camara Santa had been meticulously examined and accounted for, ruling out the possibility of theft.

The attendant had told his story several times to the authorities. Not that there was much to tell. The priest had shown no signs of illness that day and had handled the steps with no apparent difficulty. He seemed to recall that they had exchanged pleasantries, but none of significance. Then, after waiting about 20 minutes - yes, he was pretty sure it was twenty minutes - the attendant had gone in search of the priest. And found him dead. And that was more or less it.

The rustle of robes and the whisper of voices told him that the archbishop and his party were approaching. Of the three guests, the attendant recognized only the tallest – he was from Madrid, and an archbishop, as well, if memory was not mistaken. But the other two gave off a similar air of importance. The hard set of their faces suggested the seriousness of their purpose.

Special visits to the Camara Santa were usually scheduled weeks in advance and he was told beforehand who the guests would be, so extra security could be arranged, if necessary. This visit was clearly being made in secret.

He inserted the large key and swung open the heavy gate, then scurried ahead of the four men, down the stairs, fumbling for the second set of keys which would open the grille to the Camara Santa itself. He felt the dampness of perspiration in the small of his back.

“Déjanos,” mumbled the archbishop, as he entered the holy sanctuary. “Leave us now.” The only sign of urgency was the way one of the “guests” clasped and unclasped his hands, as if they were sticky with pitch. Did they all know, the attendant wondered, that they were standing on the very spot where the priest’s body had fallen?

The sounds of their discussion followed after him, but by the time he reached the main entrance, the words were indecipherable. But there was one word he thought he heard repeated several times: “falta….falta….”
Missing?
What could be missing? Everything in the Camara Santa had been checked out and accounted for.

The minutes ticked by so slowly that at one point he shook his pocket watch vigorously, thinking it had stopped.

The attendant had seen no reason to report that he had left his post for several minutes to escort a lone woman out of the church. Now he wondered if the lapse had been discovered. The longer he waited, the more uncertainty gnawed at his stomach.

An hour and a half had elapsed, when he heard his name being called and he hastened to lock the grille of the Camara Santa. The archbishop and his guests silently negotiated the steps, their features sterner than before. At the entrance, the attendant pulled the massive gate shut and turned the key in the lock, only to discover when he was through, that the archbishop was standing behind him.

“The keys,” he ordered, extending his right hand.

The attendant’s heart went leaden. He was being stripped of his position. How would he support his family now? It was a selfish thought, he knew, given the circumstances, but there it was. He handed over both sets of keys.

“No, just those to the Camara Santa,” said the archbishop. “I am afraid it will be closed until further notice. We will inform the press that certain structural repairs are necessary at this time. You are authorized to tell tourists as much.”

Tucking the keys under his robe, the archbishop uttered a curt “Buenos noches,” and followed after his guests.

The attendant felt his knees go weak with relief. His livelihood was secure, after all. Of course, it had been his duty to stand guard over the old priest, but it was also his responsibility to protect the cathedral and its treasures from visitors, who lingered beyond the appointed hours. Anyway, he’d only slipped away for a moment.

As long as he kept quiet, he realized, no one would need know anything about the woman. Like the old priest, he would take those final minutes with him to his grave.